A Beautiful Place to Die (14 page)

So instead of going straight home, I drove to the Martin place. Susie and her mother were out watering flowers. They were of the buy-them-grown-in-the-pot-so-you-can-grow-them-right-away school of flower growers. I was a plant-the-seeds-yourself man. My flowers were just beginning to push out of the earth and theirs were big and beautiful.

I asked them both if they'd ever seen Jim wearing a class ring. They hadn't. I fingered the ring in my pocket and
felt perverse about not showing it to them. There was no reason not to, but I didn't. I wondered if Bilbo Baggins felt the same way when he was playing the riddle game with Gollum.

“Why do you think he had a ring?” asked Susie.

“Because his sister told me he always wore one.”

“When did you talk to his sister?”

“I liked Jim,” I said. “So I phoned my sympathies to his folks and his sister asked me about the ring. Apparently it never got sent back with the rest of his stuff. I didn't remember ever seeing it, but I thought maybe one of you might have.”

“I never saw one,” said Susie. “I would have if he'd worn one.”

“It's easy to lose something like that,” said her mother. “Goodness knows I've lost enough things right here at home. Years later I'll find some old earring down behind the cushions in the living room couch.”

“Maybe that's what happened,” I said. “Where's Billy?”

Mrs. Martin waved a hand indicating various directions. “Oh, he's off somewhere. He's not the type to stay home with the womenfolk.”

I drove to the Edgartown Library, which sits prettily on North Water Street, thought by some to be the town's most ritzy locale. I asked the librarian if there was such a thing as a book that listed all of the high schools in America.

Librarians are wonderfully valuable people. This one found a book of government publications, frowned over it while she leafed through it, and then placed a polished nail upon just what I wanted: the
Educational Directory: Public School Systems.
It was put out by the National Center for Educational Statistics, whatever that might be, and was printed by—who else?—the U.S. Government Printing
Office. My tax dollars perform obscure functions at times.

“We might even have an out-of-date copy,” said the librarian.

I didn't need a new edition. I sat down at a table and soon she brought me the little book and placed it in front of me. She smiled. She was happy. I smiled back. Librarians are all right.

The book listed every school system in the country in alphabetical order by state. If there had been a Longview school system somewhere in 1951, it was probably still there. School systems don't tend to disappear. Longview sounded western to me. Nobody in Massachusetts, for instance, would name their town Longview.

Smart me. There were three Longview school systems in the United States, one in Texas, one in California, and one in Washington. All three included high schools. I took some notes, thanked the librarian, and went home. I was beginning to despair over my phone bill, but nevertheless dialed directory assistance for each state and got the telephone numbers of the three schools.

Texas was two hours west of me and California and Washington were three. Most public schools were still in session, although the seniors might have been let loose by now. I dialed the Texas school. A secretary with a sweet, twangy voice answered. I gave her my name and told her where I was. People in small towns like getting calls from faraway places. She was happy.

“I have a mystery you might be able to solve,” I said.

“A mystery!” People like mysteries. “How exciting! How can I help you?”

I told her about the ring and the initials. “I'd like to find out who it belonged to so I can try to return it to its owner. Do you have a 1951 yearbook?”

“Yes! We have them all right down the hall in our library. I know what you want—you want me to find out if one of our graduates had a name to match those initials!”

“Exactly. Can you do it?”

“You just hold on. This will only take a minute. It's right down the hall. This is exciting!”

It took more than a minute, but only because no one with the right initials had graduated in 1951. My helper was disappointed but undaunted. “I'm sure you'll find your man in Washington or California!”

I thanked her and called Longview, California. Ten minutes later I had the name.

George Harrison Martin. George. My fishing buddy, George.

I didn't bother calling Washington.

Jim Norris's mother had George Martin's high school class ring when she died. Jim Norris always wore the ring, but he'd never worn it on Martha's Vineyard. Instead, he'd hidden it away in a coffee cup. I looked at my watch. The library was still open. 1 went back. The librarian was still on duty. I asked her if she kept old copies of
Time
magazine.

“I want to look at that story about George Martin. Remember it? Year before last, I think.”

She nodded. “Of course I remember it. George has become a loyal supporter of the library. I know we still have that magazine, but I'll have to get it for you. We only have room enough for the more recent editions of our magazines here on the main floor and that story came out two years ago this month.”

She went out and came back with the magazine. I sat down and read the story again.

It was a good-natured human interest story amid a long piece on the life-styles of America's economic whiz kids. George had been one of them. Forced by a mid-forties heart attack to reconsider his priorities, he had done the seemingly impossible: he had sold out completely and returned to the simple life on Martha's Vineyard, where
he was completely happy. There was a picture of him down on the beach looking right at home with the local surf casters. There was also a brief résumé of his life.

He had been born into a working-class family in Longview, California. His parents ran a mom-and-pop grocery store. He'd been drafted and had served in the Korean war, where he'd been captured and imprisoned for several months before escaping. After getting home to the States, he'd attended Brown on the G.I. Bill and academic scholarships and, upon graduation, had immediately seen the promise of high technology and started his own company. He married Marge White, whom he'd met at a cocktail party, and they had two children, William and Susan.

He was a millionaire by the time he was thirty-five and a multimillionaire by the time he was forty. He liked fishing and hunting, but had little time for either. After a routine physical he was advised by his doctor to slow down, but he hadn't and one day had a mild heart attack. He tried then to slow down, but didn't. Second and third heart attacks persuaded him to change his life-style completely. His associates didn't think he could do it, but he did. He no longer saw much of his old friends, but had become an islander. He was happy and had no regrets. He was content with his Jeep, shotguns, and fishing gear.

I reread the part about Korea. He'd been captured on his very first patrol and had been reported missing in action and later presumed dead. His parents had been shocked when he'd shown up almost a year later. There was no mention of a high school sweetheart.

I got the ring out of my pocket and rolled it between thumb and fingers, thinking.

Jim Norris had showed up on the Vineyard a couple of months after the
Time
article appeared. He'd gotten a job easily because there was a lot of construction on the island and good carpenters were always in demand. He'd taken a place up island and had soon joined the fishing crowd at Wasque, where he and George met and hit it off. Why had he come to Wasque when there was good fishing up island a lot closer to his house? Why hadn't he joined the fishermen at Squibnocket or Gay Head or Lobsterville? Why had he taken to coming all the way down to Chappaquiddick for his bluefishing?

He had the ring and he'd found out who it belonged to, maybe the same way I'd found out, maybe because his wanderings had taken him to Longview, California. He'd thought what I was thinking—that George Harrison Martin was his father. Then, later, he'd seen the
Time
article and come to the Vineyard to see his old man.

But when he got here, he'd taken off the ring. Why? Because he didn't want George to see it. Why?

The librarian came over. “I'm sorry, J. W., but it's closing time. You can come back tomorrow.”

I thanked her and went home. There was still a lot of light. The fish were in, but I decided to let them live another day. I sat down and read the latest
Gazette,
looking for the latest rumors about drugs and cops. I had to look hard because the
Gazette
prefers to dwell upon the beauties of the Vineyard and the dangers of overdevelopment. I found the story four pages in. A two-inch report of a number of officials declining comment.

I had a beer and made a refrigerator omelet out of eggs and the odds and ends left over from earlier meals. I thought Zee would have liked my omelet, but she wasn't
there, so I ate her share. When I had everything washed up, I drove up to the hospital to see George.

He was now in a private room and looked good.

“I don't know why I'm here,” he grumped. “I'm ready to break out.”

“Watch television.”

“Have you watched television lately?”

“I watched the late news a couple of nights back.”

“It's summer rerun time. Television is bad enough in the winter. It's worse in the summer.”

“You should probably watch soap operas. They're the same all year round, I think.”

“What I want to see is a bluefish taking my plug.”

“Read a book.”

He grinned. “Fuck you, J.W.”

“I just came across that
Time
story,” I said. “I came up here so I could hobnob with a member of the upper classes.”

“It's too bad you never learned to read,” said George. “If you could, you'd know I'm about as upper class as you are, which obviously isn't very. My people are barely off the boat.”

“Don't get snooty about it.” I sat down. “Martin sounds like an English name. Your people from there originally?”

“That's a strange question coming from you. In all the years I've known you, I don't think I ever heard you ask anyone a single thing about their past.”

“His past,” I said, “or her past. ‘Their' is a plural pronoun, not a singular one.”

“What?”

“I'm a strange sort of guy,” I said. “Humor me.”

“You humor me first. Why don't you ask people the
usual sort of questions—Where do you come from? What do you do for a living?—that sort of thing. It's normal, but you don't do it.”

“I used to ask a lot of questions for a living. Maybe I'm just out of the habit. I remember once I was at a party and suddenly got the idea that, since most of us there didn't know one another, we should all agree to talk about anything but what we did for a living. I thought it would be fun and that maybe it would have some effect on how we treated each other. You know, we wouldn't treat each other in terms of our jobs. We wouldn't talk one way to someone because we knew she was a doctor or because she dug ditches. I think maybe it had to do with the fact that I was a cop and as soon as people learned that they started acting differently.”

“How did it go?”

“It didn't go. A guy who was talking to me when I suggested it became quite upset. He insisted on knowing what I did for a living. I thought he was joking, but he wasn't. After a few minutes he got red in the face and blurted out, ‘Well, I'm a minister!' And he walked away and never spoke to me again. Later somebody told me he was a pastoral counselor.”

George nodded. “That's what I like about Wasque. Down there nobody cares what you do. They only worry about having you cross their lines. But now here you are, asking me about my ancestors.”

“That was just a feint. I do have some questions I'd like to ask you, though. I think they're important, but I'd prefer not to tell you why right now because I'm not sure yet just where all this will lead.”

He looked understandably perplexed.

“I do think they're important,” I repeated. “I'll even tell you why I want to know, if you insist. But I'd rather you didn't.”

He grunted and looked at me hard. “Well, I owe you my life, I think, so how can I refuse?”

“You can refuse. I won't even promise to tell you anything later. I haven't worked that out yet.”

“All right. Ask away. I don't think I have any skeletons in my closet.”

Everyone had skeletons somewhere, I thought. Something they'd just as soon no one ever found out about. But I needed to know about the ring.

“Straight to it, then. Tell me about your girlfriends when you were, say, in high school. For example, did you have a steady girl?”

A quizzical little smile appeared on his face. Then he shook his head. “Jesus, that goes a long ways back. No, no steady girl. A lot of the guys had steady girls, of course, but I was working at the store and trying for a scholarship, so I was too busy to interest any of the girls too much. I dated, of course. The movies now and then. A couple of proms. But I wasn't into school sports or the sort of things that girls liked to do. Why do you . . . ? Oops, forgot, you don't want to tell me why you're interested.”

“Not yet, at least. What happened after you graduated? I know you got drafted, but when? Right away, or was there a delay?”

“No delay. I'd gotten a scholarship to Brown. I wanted to go east to school. I'd never been east of the Sierra Nevadas. But then Uncle Sam sent his invitation. I suppose I could have tried to get a student deferment, but I didn't. I figured that after my two years I'd have the G.I. Bill and the scholarship to help me through college.” He gave a
wry look. “Of course it never occurred to me that I'd actually have to go overseas, so when I got my shipping orders it was quite a shock.”